


Turtles All The Way Down

by TheseusInTheMaze



Category: markiplier - Fandom
Genre: Anal Sex, Anxiety, Bathing/Washing, Charging Port Fucking, Fancy Underwear, Gender Neutral Reader Insert, Insecurities, Other, Rimming, Robot Sex, Robot/Human Relationships, Techno Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-27
Updated: 2018-09-27
Packaged: 2019-07-18 09:32:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16115660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheseusInTheMaze/pseuds/TheseusInTheMaze
Summary: You and your new robot are still figuring out where, exactly, you want to go with all of this.





	Turtles All The Way Down

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NBmess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NBmess/gifts).



You're not sure why you're so... hesitant. 

Maybe it's the robot aspect - in some ways, it's like having a combination roommate, new partner, and really self aware vibrator. 

Although that's not very nice, now that you think about it.

Or are you overthinking it?

You lean back in your chair, watching him walk back and forth, cleaning the kitchen.

Not that the kitchen needs much cleaning, honestly - he does most of the cooking, and he's a conscientious dude. 

You've never even seen him let a pot overflow. 

But he's tracking back and forth, and you're watching him track back and forth, trying not to stare too hard at the way his muscles bunch under his shirt.

You ordered a robot - a very good looking robot - and now you're feeling guilty for ogling said robot.

This is like something out of a certain type of science fiction novel.

You lick your lips, and you sigh, leaning back in your seat, your hands behind your head. 

He is, technically, a person - androids are people, by the standards of the place - but also kind of not, at the same time.

You bought him, you sort of, kind of own him.

... you're definitely overthinking this.

"Are you finding me satisfactory?"

You nearly jump out of your skin, as Google stands in front of you, looking down at you, his expression pretty close to impassive.

"What? Um. Yes." 

You're flushing.

"Good," he says.

"What are the moral implications of us being intimate?"

... you didn't mean to say that.

You really didn't, but now it's floating in the air, like a particularly bad smell, and you can't seem to stop blushing.

"I am a machine," he reminds you.

"I mean, yeah, you are a machine," you say, "but you're also a person."

He shrugs.

"Am I?"

"You have a personality," you tell him. "A personality and a face."

He sits at the table across from you - in the early days, when he first got here, he used to stand all the time, looming like the butler in the Addams family. 

The fact that he is just pulling out a chair and sitting is a victory, really.

You rub your hands together, trying not to jiggle your leg.

"My personality is programmed in," he tells you.

"Well, yes, but so is everyone's, if you look at it a certain sort of way."

"A certain sort of way," he echoes.

"Right," you say.

You've had this conversation before - you've had variations of it pretty much since he arrived, and it doesn't seem like it's ever going to stop.

Is it because he's a robot, and has trouble holding an idea in his head for too long?

Or are some relationships (oh, but your heart leaps like a gazelle at that word) like that? 

Endless repetition, things happening again and again, because that's how it works?

He shrugs.

"Androids officially have rights," he says.

"Right," you say. "Technically you're my employee."

"Who you also bought," he reminds you.

You shrug.

"You can buy yourself back," you counter. "You can earn a wage."

"You do not have the funds to pay me a wage," he says.

"I could... um," you say.

You're not really sure how to respond to that, apart from the yawning chasm of guilt that seems to be burrowing down into your gut like some kind of unpleasant parasite.

As if there's such a thing as a pleasant parasite. 

"Um?"

He raises an eyebrow, and the look he's giving you seems so... knowing that you blush harder, trying not to squirm in your seat.

There's a little flush of arousal going through you, throbbing through your body, your toes curling in your socks, your cheeks heating up.

You're not supposed to be so aroused.

You're not supposed to be so _distracted_ either, but... well, here you are. 

"If you would like to be intimate with me, than I would like to be intimate with you," Google says.

"Yeah, but... it doesn't work like that," you say, and you lick your lips again.

"Why not?"

"Because," you say, "well. Uh, becuase, that's... that's super codependent."

"I can't be codependent," he says. "I'm not a person. Besides, humans can work that way too, without being codependent. Some humans have responsive desire."

"Responsive desire?"

"Responsive desire: the opposite of spontaneous desire," Google says, in that specific voice he always uses when he's reading something off of the insides of his eyelids. 

"Really helpful," you grumble. "So what's spontaneous desire? And don't say "the opposite of responsive desire," please."

"Spontaneous desire is the ability to experience desire spontaneously, without the input of others," says Google, and he reaches out, taking your hand in his own, turning it around and kissing the inside of your wrist.

It sends a prickle up your arm, and you shiver.

Um.

"Responsive desire is desire expressed in response to someone else's desire," Google says, and he's still keeping eye contact with you as he kisses your palm, then the tip of each finger.

You're blushing very hard, and you clear your throat.

"As a machine, I can express both," he tells you, and he kisses your middle finger again, then lets go, setting your hand gently on the table.

You clear your throat, looking at your own hand.

It's shaking, just a bit.

You lick your lips, and you lean back into your seat.

"Right," you say, although you're not sure what you're talking about.

You're not really sure about anything right now, except that you're so turned on that it's hard to remember much of _anything_.

You shiver, and you look at him, aware that you're panting.

He smiles at you, and it's a slow, easy smile.

You'd go so far as to call it a shit eating grin, which shouldn't be such a surprise to you, all things considered.

He's shown himself to be a bit of a brat in the past - the fact that he's found a new way to metaphorically push your buttons shouldn't be a surprise at all. 

Okay.

"So," you say, "Um. If you'd... if you'd ever be interested in being intimate with me, for... for whatever reason, feel free to tell me."

"What kind of intimate are you thinking about?"

"What do you mean?"

That isn't a question you were expecting.

"Well," he says, "there are many different types of intimacy. There is sexual intimacy, emotional intimacy, physical intimacy -"

"You already said sexual intimacy," you point out.

"Physical intimacy and sexual intimacy aren't the same thing," he says.

"Oh," you say, feeling faintly silly. "Right. Sorry."

"Are you asking me if I want intimacy, period?"

"I suppose so, yeah," you say to him. "If you'd like... if you'd like to be any kind of intimate with me."

"I would," Google says. "Although I am a bit at a loss as to what it would mean to be any kind of intimate with someone who isn't made of the same things that I am."

"Right," you say. "Well, uh... I assume you've got all the same... parts that I've got."

You ordered an anatomically correct version, although at the time you weren't sure why.

Well, now you know, right?

Oh _god_ this is embarrassing, although you're not even sure why. 

"I will think about it," Google says, and then he stands up again, and pats you on the head.

It's an odd way to show affection, but it is how he does it, and it's not like you'd complain.

Affection is _nice_ , even from a robot.

He's a robot with a personality, which is the important part, right?

You sit up, stretching, and you arch your back, then stand up.

Time to get on with your day. 

* * *

You don't think too much about the whole "intimacy" conversation, until Google comes to see you a few days later, looking as close to sheepish as he ever does. 

"I require some assistance," he tells you, and he looks embarrassed.

"Of course," you tell him. "What can I do for you?"

"My charging port is in need of cleaning," he says, "and I am finding it somewhat difficult to do an adequate job."

His charging port is the spot where he plugs in, to charge.

It's a little bit on the side of his neck that he can plug himself in, and it's always given you the heebie jeebies, just a bit.

He looks and feels so... human, most of the time, but seeing the spot where the charging cord goes in somehow reminds you of how much of a robot he is.

Still, he's being vulnerable for you, after you asked for intimacy.

It's not like you can throw that in his face.

"Of course," you tell him. "What do you need me to do?"

"I'll be right back," he says, and then he's going off to the bathroom.

He comes back with the box of cotton swabs, and then he indicates the couch.

"You could sit on the couch, and I could sit in front of you and fix it?"

"Do you need, like, a can of compressed air or something like that?"

"No, that should be sufficient," says Google.

There's a little whirring noise, and then he's opening his charging port.

You look down into it, and then you frown, leaning forward, groping around for your phone to use as a flashlight.

You can see little fuzzballs along the charging port - it looks like maybe his fan has been having trouble getting rid of them.

Oh well.

You can fix that well enough.

"I'm going to clean this out now, alright?"

"Right," he says.

He sounds faintly nervous. 

"Are you alright?"

You rest a hand on top of his head, letting your fingers sink into his hair.

It feels almost real, and it slides between your fingers, silky. 

"This is... I am nervous, inasmuch as I can feel anything," he says, and he does, indeed, sound nervous.

"Right," you say. "What are you nervous about?"

"You damaging me," he says, which is a degree of bluntness you're not expecting.

"What can I do to damage you? Like, how do I keep _from_ damaging you?"

"If you press down too hard, you can end up doing damage to the contact points," he says.

"Right," you say. "I'll be gentle."

This is a slightly absurd situation, but... fuck it.

You gently slide the cotton swab along the inside of his charging port, collecting little fuzzballs.

You're reminded, absurdly, of cleaning out an old fashioned analog mouse, with its rolling ball that would get gummed up with lint.

You bite back a giggle as you think about it, using the swab to gather up the bits of lint, tossing them to the side.

He is utterly still against you, although you can hear a few servos whirring louder than usual.

Is this a sexual pleasure thing for him?

Or is it like getting a good scalp massage, or an intense hair cut?

Or maybe it’s like going to the doctor.

Regardless, you can do this, right?

You keep your fingers gentle, as you clean up the little balls of lint that are collecting in his port, until you can’t see anymore, at which point you just… rest your hand on the back of his neck.

For all that he’s clearly always trying to do his best to look as human as possible (probably to keep from spooking you) there’s something… well, intimate, about seeing the metal. 

You’re surprised at how _not_ creeped out you are.

Huh.

“You can touch it, if you want,” he says.

“Touch it?”

“My charging port,” he says.

“Oh,” you say, although you’re not sure how to react.

Is he suggesting you… give him the robot equivalent of a hand job, or is it something else?

“Would it feel good for you?”

“It was nice when you cleaned it up,” he says, and if you didn’t know better, you’d think that he’s embarrassed.

“Right,” you say.

What does pleasure feel like to a robot, anyway?

You look down, and you lick your lips.

“You won’t get electrocuted,” he adds, almost as an afterthought.

You pause.

You hadn’t even thought of that, honestly.

Well, at least one of you is thinking, right?

You can see the shiny metal of the contact points, and then you’re just… slipping your finger into the hole in the back of his neck, feeling the cold metal.

It’s just your pinky - the charging port is very small, and you wouldn’t want to cause any injury to him by pressing too hard on something.

But he’s shivering, various servos whirring, and you use your finger to gently swirl along the port, as he begins to go stiff.

He’s not panting - he doesn’t need to breathe - but the whirring is getting louder, as you press your finger against the contact point.

“Oh,” he says, and his voice is rough.

“Is this okay?”

You draw your finger back.

“It’s… odd,” he says. “Not bad odd, but… I’m not used to only one contact point being accessed at a time.”

“What does it feel like?”

“Incomplete,” he says, “but not in a bad way.”

“Huh,” you say, although you’re not sure how to respond to that.

“Have you ever wanted to be penetrated, sexually?”

You flush at that question, and you clear your throat.

Your arousal is starting to flood through you, a wave of hormones and heat.

“Occasionally, yes,” you say.

“From the descriptions I’ve read,” he says, “it’s the same sort of idea.”

“Oh,” you say. “Right. That makes sense.”

“What does being penetrated sexually… feel like?”

“It’s intense,” you tell him, as you stroke the pad of your finger against the little metal contact pad.

He shudders, and his head is leaning further forward, his face pressed into his hands.

“This is… intense,” he says. “It’s like listening to music, but throughout all of me.”

“Right,” you say, and you begin to stroke it again, a little harder this time.

He gives a long, drawn out groan, and you move to a different contact point, just to see the way he’ll react.

He goes very, very stiff.

“Please,” he says, and his voice is rough.

“Please?”

“Please… don’t stop,” he says. 

“Right,” you say, still stroking, alternating between each spot.

He’s beginning to tremble, all the variou sservos whirring, and you’d be unsettled, except you trust him.

That’s a bit of a shock, isn’t it?

You trust this robot, not just with yourself, but with himself.

You need to think about that.

You find a third contact point, and you dig your thumb into the skin around the edges of his charging port, still pressing. 

“Oh,” he says, and then he goes utterly still - everything is completely stalled for a minute, and you’re terrified that you’ve broken him.

But then everything seems to happen at once, and he’s shuddering, everything whirring and making other noises at once, until he’s slumped forward.

“I believe… I just had something like an orgasm,” he says. 

“Did you?”

You take your fingers out of his neck, gently, and there’s another whirr as he closes up his contact point.

“Yes,” he says, and then he’s leaning back into your legs, tilting his head back, his eyes half shut.

If he was human, he’d be panting and red faced.

As it is, he’s staring into space, his expression faintly embarrassed, more than a little dopey. 

“Did you, uh… did you like that?”

“Oh yes,” he says. “I was, however, unaware that it would happen.”

“Have you never cleaned out your own charging port?”

“I have,” he says, “but usually it is not that… intense.”

_Maybe he’s got feelings for you,_ some part of your brain says in a matter of fact tone of voice, and you blush, biting your lip.

That’s… that’s a lot to think about, even though you know, logically, that he likes you, that he wouldn’t be staying with you if he didn’t like you.

You lean down, and you press a nervous kiss to the top of his head.

He pats you on the back of the head awkwardly, and you sigh, ruffling his hair.

It moves almost as if its real.

He doesn’t offer you any sort of sexual favor, and you’re not even sure if you’d want him to.

You’re keyed up - _oh_ , but are you keyed up - but for some reason, the idea of pursuing that just feels… uncomfortable.

Like the two of you aren’t ready for that yet.

You sigh, and you stretch, finally turning off the flashlight on your phone.

He stands up, his joints making quiet noises, and he offers you a hand up.

“I’m going to make lunch,” he tells you. “What would you like?”

* * *

While he’s in the kitchen, you hide in your bedroom, and you masturbate desperately.

It’s the kind of masturbation that you associate with being much younger, frantic, chasing your orgasm like its lightning.

You hump your hand, your eyes shut tightly, thinking of the sensation of your fingers entering his body, thinking of the way he whirred.

You cum across your own fingers in a mess of arousal and wetness, and you go completely limp, flat on your back, panting.

Your pants are still on, and you’re going to have to change them before you get anything else done.

Fuck, that… why is that so hot?

You’re still trembling, as you catch your breath.

* * *

He returns the favor a few days later. 

You’re a mess - you had to work in the garden, as he cleaned the living room, and when you come in a sweaty mess, he looks at you, his expression impassive.

“I’m going to take a shower,” you tell him, wiping your face on the back of your arm. 

You’re sweaty, covered in dirt and who even knows what else, your hair soaked under the bandanna you stuffed it under, your clothing sticking to you.

“Would you like me to join you?”

“Um,” you say, and you blush, although you’re not certain why.

It’s not at him seeing you naked - he’s seen you naked tons of times - before he became more of a person to you, you tried to psych yourself out of feeling weird about owning someone, and went naked, just for the sake of reminding yourself that he wasn’t a person.

It hadn’t worked, although now you’re more comfortable being naked around him.

But… well, showering with someone, that’s a certain kind of intense that you’re not sure how to deal with.

You can, at the very least, try, right?

You’re willing to try new things, and if he was willing to let you stick your fingers in his actual neck, you can be willing to let him wash your back, right?

“Of course,” you tell him. “You’d be safe under the water, right?”

“I am waterproof unless I open up specific ports,” he tells you.

“Right,” you say, and then you are making your way towards the bathroom.

* * *

You get undressed, dropping your dirty clothes in the hamper.

You really overdid it, although now the garden is weeded.

Your hands are stained green from all the chickweed, and what’s more, you _smell_ green, under all the dust, the sweat, and the dirt.

There’s something nice about being this gross, after doing important chores.

Your muscles ache pleasantly, and you give a sigh that’s almost sexual, as you step out under the water.

Google disrobes with the efficiency that you’re used to, and you try not to ogle him as he gets naked. 

Oh wow.

He’s… he’s pretty well proportioned.

He’s very good looking, and you want to press against him, rub your sweaty, disgusting self against all of that artificial skin.

… wow, but that’s somewhat out of character for you.

Instead, you step under the water, tilting your head back and letting the shower drum across your scalp.

You can taste the salt of your own sweat as the water washes it down, and then there is a warm body behind yours.

Google is remarkably warm, considering he doesn’t really… create heat, the way you do.

He wraps his arms around your waist, and he rests his chin on your shoulder.

“You did good work,” he says, his voice quiet, as his big hands span your hips, then move to your belly, stroking it gently.

You sigh, little shivers beginning to work their way through your skin, as you bite your lip.

Um.

“Thank you,” you say.

“Why do you not like it when I work on the garden?”

“Because if you do it, then it’s not my garden, it’s the garden that you did for me,” you tell him.

“But you own me, so it would still be your garden,” he points out.

You frown, and you lean into him.

His chest is hairless, and smooth against your back.

“In a technical sense, maybe,” you tell him, “but it would still be more your garden than my garden.”

“It can’t be my garden. I’m not a person,” he says.

His voice vibrates through his chest, against your back, and it is downright ticklish.

“You’re a person,” you tell him, as his hands explore your sides, gently.

He doesn’t have any calluses, which is an odd sensation.

No calluses, no fingerprints, nothing. 

Just him.

“I might be to you, but I’m not to the world at large.”

“You are, too,” you tell him.

He sighs, more for the sound of it than because he needs any air, and then he’s… nuzzling into your neck.

If he was a human being, you would have commented on the fact that he’s trying to find your scent, but he doesn’t really smell anything, so you’re not sure what it is that he’s doing.

It does feel nice, though.

You stay leaned against him, the hot water beating down on the two of you, as you let your eyes slide closed, losing yourself in the heat and the closeness, losing yourself in the familiarity of being with another living being.

… does Google count as a living being?

Yes.

Anything that has a face and can talk is at least some flavor of living, and you won’t argue about that.

Instead, you let yourself be held, let him rock, just a bit, let the water fill the space with steam. 

“Your heart is beating very face,” he says, his voice quiet, and he’s holding your wrist in his hand now, no doubt feeling your pulse.

“You’re very close to me,” you tell him. 

Your arousal is evident, and you’d be embarrassed, if you weren’t riding whatever high you are from the closeness. 

Is arousal brought on by intimacy, like a thing?

Maybe it's just because there's another warm body so close to your own, and you're both naked.

Google's dick is soft, and you're half curious about feeling it - would it be like a soft packer? 

His skin is made out of some kind of patented stuff - like NuSkin, only moreso.

"Can I touch you?"

Your voice is very quiet - if he were a human, he probably wouldn't be able to hear it over the spray of the water.

"You're already touching me," says Google, which is true - he's got his hands on you. 

You're connected, physically.

"No, not like that," you say. "Can I touch... can I touch your penis?"

Welp.

It's out there.

Just... dangling there.

Rather like a penis, actually, and you bite back a cackle, because... well.

Well.

"If you'd like to," says Google.

You turn around, so that the two of you are more of less chest to chest, and then you look down.

There's your body - familiar as ever, what with you living in it as long as you have.

There's his body - all smooth skin and planes, as you run your palms across it.

The skin is pliable, and gives a little when you push down on it.

He doesn't seem to be experiencing any discomfort - doesn't seem to be experiencing any _anything_ , just staring into your face, expression passive.

"What are you thinking?"

Your voice is very quiet.

"The water beads off of your skin like off of treated leather," he says promptly.

... huh.

"Does it?"

"Yes."

That isn't what you were expecting, but then again, he's not human. 

It would be kind of dumb to expect his mind to follow the same types of tracks as yours does.

For that matter, your mind _has_ gone on sudden tangents like that.

You lick your lips, trying not to shift from foot to foot too much, trying not to psych yourself out.

You slide your hand down his stomach - he's got _abs_ , you can feel them shift under your hand as you trace the shape of them! - and then your hand is resting on his penis.

It's soft.

Soft, warm, heavy, and a little... well, a little weird, but it's not exactly new.

You've held a penis in your hand before, albeit one that's usually a bit more... responsive.

You give it a squeeze, gently, your eyes on his face, and he keeps looking into your face.

"Do you like it?"

"I'm not sure," he says, and he sounds almost hesitant.

"Do you want me to stop?"

"No," he says. 

"What would you like me to do?"

"Keep touching me," says Google. 

"Like this?"

You wrap your hand around the shaft of his penis, and he sighs.

The sound is obviously just for your benefit - he doesn't need to breathe, so it's not like he needs the oxygen or anything, but still.

"Your hand is very warm," he says. 

"I'd think it'd be cold, compared to the hot water," you say.

You're both talking very quietly, as you trace along the shape of his penis.

He's been circumcised - or would it make more sense to say that the penis his is modeled after is circumcised?

Are you thinking too deeply into this?

You pass your fingers along the circumcision scar, and he sighs, leaning into you.

"That is... a different sort of pleasurable," he says, and his voice is almost rough.

"Different?"

"Different from when you were cleaning out my charging port," he says.

"Oh," you say. "Yeah, that would... that would make sense," you say. 

"I'm enjoying it," he says.

"Can you get hard?"

... was that an awkward thing to ask?

Crap.

You're not entirely used to the... rules, for this sort of thing.

"Do you want me to get hard?"

"Only if you want to," you tell him.

"I will have to engage a program," he says. 

A little bolt of panic slithers down your spine, although fucked if you know why.

You pull your hand back, and you realize that you're beginning to shake.

Huh.

"Are you alright?"

Google's voice sounds concerned.

"I'm fine," you say, and you reach back down to his penis. 

So maybe the idea of him having an erection is kind of... unsettling, when you get down to it, but fuck if you're going to be intimidated. 

He catches your wrist, and then he brings your hand up to his mouth, and he kisses the back of it.

"If you're uncomfortable," he says, in that quiet voice of his, "I don't want you to force yourself."

"... sorry," you say, and you press your forehead against his shoulder, your eyes sliding shut. 

You're shivering, and he holds on to you.

Your own arousal is still beating through you like a heartbeat, and you're not sure what to do about that - it's not that you're _afraid_ of sex - far from it!

But there's something... intense about all of this.

Maybe it's the fact that it's been a while.

Maybe it's just the fact that he's a robot.

A beautiful, flawless robot, while you're just a human, who farts and gets pimples and sneezes and does who knew how many other things.

... yeah, no.

You're feeling inadequate next to your robot... lover. 

Lover?

You groan, and you thunk your forehead against him.

"Is something the matter?"

His voice is a low rumble, vibrating pleasantly through his chest, making your own skin buzz.

"I'm a cliche," you tell him.

"You're not a cliche," he tells you.

"How do you know?"

"I contain all of the knowledge of the internet," he tells you, his voice serious. "If you were a cliche, I would know. I know about cliches."

"Of course you do," you tell him, and then you stand up on tiptoes, kissing him impulsively.

He kisses you back, his expression surprised, but not insulted.

He kisses you on the mouth, and then he's kissing along your jaw, down your neck, and you're sighing, as his lips trace your pulse point.

"I find you fascinating," he tells you.

"Mmm?"

You try to resist the urge to make a Star Trek joke, even though he really _would_ make a good Spock, wouldn't he?

"You... you are not programmed," he says, and he's speaking against your neck, as you get goosebumps along your back, licking your lips. 

"No," you agree.

You sort of are - what's the difference between this kind of electrical impulse versus that kind, or the various chemical soups that more or less get you to do what you need to do? - but he seems to be deep in his own thoughts.

"You could, in theory, do just about anything, and it would be doable, because you're not programmed," he says.

He looks at you with his very serious eyes, and you realize, with some shock, that he may actually be scared of you.

... huh.

That is a level of unexpected heretofore unreached.

You're not sure how to react to that.

"I'm not going to hurt you," you tell him, and you try to keep your voice gentle. "I'd never hurt you." You pause, then add, "on purpose."

"I know," he says, "but there's still the... potential for it. It's exhilarating." 

You kiss him again, because it seems like he needs that, and because it's a thing that you want very much right now.

He presses close to you, and he kisses you back, kisses you like something out of a movie.

He's not a very good kisser, and there's something interesting about that - the fact that he's still figuring it out, that he's just as probing and faintly awkward as any human being.

When you pull back, you're panting, and you look into his face.

"Where did you learn to kiss?"

"I emulate the kissing techniques I've observed in various forms of media, adding variations when you respond positively," he says.

Is that really that different from how human beings kiss?

For all that its supposed to be instinctive, you know that you've learned a chunk of your own kissing techniques via imitation.

Someone must have been the first person to figure a thing out, but everyone else is an imitator, all the way down.

"Turtles all the way down," you say, because it's popped into your head and you're a level of giddy that you can't even put into words, except that you're shaking, and you want to keep kissing him.

He cups your face, and he thumbs your cheekbones.

"What does physics have to do with anything?"

He looks faintly confused, and you always live for those moments - there's something nice about baffling all of that computer programming.

"It could be argued that physics has something to do with everything," you tell him, and you try not to burst out laughing as you say it, because it's such an earnest, romance novel line.

He makes an amused noise - a whirring sort of snort, which is downright _odd_ , but not bad.

"Well, yes," he says, "but I am curious about your thought process."

So you tell him.

You tell him about your theories about imitation, about humans versus robots, about the ways in which some things are so similar they might as well be the same thing.

The two of you end up getting out of the shower, toweling off.

He helps you dry your hair, then dresses you with a tenderness that makes your heart ache.

You dress him in your clothes, because there's something satisfying about seeing him like that, and you brush his hair for him, sitting on the couch as he sits on the floor, his head resting on your knee.

If you squint, you can just make out the seams of his charging port.

You're not quite so freaked out by it anymore - in a weird way, touching that was more intimate than touching his genitals.

... does the charging port count as genitals?

Maybe you're thinking too deeply into this.

He makes a contented noise as you keep brushing his hair, leaning into it.

You wonder if he gets pleasure out of it - like ASMR, only moreso, kind of.

You abandon the brush at some point, and just run your fingers through his hair, kneading gently at his scalp with the very tips of your fingers, and he gives a deep sound, leaning bonelessly into you.

You wonder, faintly, why they'd make a robot with this kind of reflex, but... eh.

Who cares?

He is a comfortable, familiar weight against the front of your legs, and your feet are tucked into his sides.

You're half tempted to feel along the seam again, to open up his charging port and run your fingers along the weird contrast of nearly-real skin and shiny, smooth metal, except you doubt he'd appreciate that.

Even if he would, it's not a thing you just... _do_.

His wet hair is leaving a wet spot on your knees.

"Thank you," he says, his voice quiet.

"You're welcome," you say.

"Would you like me to do anything for you?"

"What sort of anything?"

"I could perform sexual -"

"I'm not ready for sexual just yet," you say in a rush, because you're pretty sure that's true.

Even if it's not _exactly_ true, you're not sure what the weird... block is, that's keeping you from jumping full force into bed with him.

... metaphorical bed, not actual bed.

He tends to charge sitting in the arm chair, which does, admittedly, look very comfortable.

"I can offer non-sexual intimacy as well," he says.

"I just did that for you," you point out, tugging gently on his hair.

"Would you like me to do anything to your hair, or to rub your shoulders?"

You pause, seriously thinking about it.

Your back is sore, and your shoulders are as tense as ever.

“Alright,” you say. “I’d be up for that.”

Why does this feel so risky?

Why is your stomach tying itself up in knots like this?

You lick your lips, and you look down at him, then up, as he stands up.

He looks down at you, with that impassive robot face of his, and some bit of anxiety begins to twist inside of your stomach.

What if you’re imagining all of this?

What if he doesn’t have any sort of feelings for you, doesn’t really want you?

… no, it doesn’t work like that.

His feelings don’t work like yours, but they’re still there.

“Would you prefer to do this lying on the bed?”

“Yeah, that would… that would make sense,” you say, and you let him guide you to your bedroom.

The television is still playing in the other room, but you ignore it.

You let him gently guide you onto the bed, flat on your stomach.

You fold your arms under your chin, your eyes sliding shut, and then he’s patting you on the lower back.

“May I take your shirt off?”

“Oh. Right.”

There’s an awkward few seconds, as you wriggle out of your shirt, and then you’re topless, and his hands are on your back.

He’s got surprisingly big hands for the rest of him, although then again, who are you to judge?

You shiver as his fingers trail across your skin, and you shudder.

You’re in some weird space between horny and anxious, all of your skin breaking out in goosebumps, your jaw clenched.

You want… some sort of something.

Some sort of sex, so that you can cum like a demon, then go lazy and relaxed.

You want to kick him out of the room and masturbate until you can’t feel your legs anymore, until you need to shower.

You want to just lie here, let the sweetness and the anticipation fill you up like water from a glass.

You stay lying there, as Google settles on your hips, and then his hands are both on your shoulders, beginning to knead, and then you sigh, beginning to go boneless.

God, but that feels good.

It feels a lot better than it has a right to feel - he seems to be digging his fingers into specific spots, spots that are good enough to make your eyes roll back, just a bit, your mouth falling open.

Of course he’d be good at this.

He’s a robot.

Robots are just… good at taking care of people, in a way that you wouldn’t expect, except he’s still kneading, and then he’s turned on the vibration, and it’s enough to make you shudder.

“Is that okay?”

His voice is hushed.

You try to imagine what it would be like, to have those same vibrating fingers between your legs, maybe inside of you, pressing against the good spot inside of you.

You groan, and then you groan again, a little harder, as he digs the vibrating fingers into the sore spot in your back, and it’s undoing a knot, with the kind of unpleasant satisfaction that comes with undoing any kind of soreness.

Your eyes are sliding shut, as he begins to work your back over.

This would probably be a little easier if there was some lotion involved, or something else to ease the way a bit, but you’re not going to ask him to stop, because holy fuck does that feel good.

Your toes are curling, and the arousal in your gut is beginning to curl like a dry leaf, crackling and rolling in on itself.

You want… what do you want?

You want to stay like this.

You want to hump the mattress.

You groan, a long, drawn out sound, and you shudder, your skin still breaking out in goosebumps.

“You’re tensing up,” he says, his voice very quiet.

“Sorry,” you say.

“Why?”

“Because you’re working hard to relax me,” you say, which makes perfect sense to you.

He pats you on the hip, and you glance over your shoulder at him.

He’s looking at you with an intense expression, but does he have any other sort of expression?

He kisses your shoulder, and you sigh.

“Would you like me to do your lower back as well?”

His voice rumbles through your lower back.

“Sure,” you say, your voice sleepy. “Go for it.”

You’re already falling asleep as he begins to dig his thumbs into your lower back.

Maybe there’s some pain, but you don’t realize it - you’re too relaxed, too worn out from gardening and from… well, everything.

You make a sleepy noise, and then you’re aware of another kiss to the back of your neck, before you pass off into sleep.

* * *

You wake up, slightly sore from a good massage, your head full of dark sleep.

It’s some grey hour, and you blink around you in your empty bedroom.

You wonder if you’d be able to get Google to sleep with you - does he need to be sitting up in order to charge?

It’d be interesting, to sleep next to him.

Maybe you just miss sleeping next to someone else, although sleeping next to someone with a charging cable coming out of their neck seems a bit eerie.

Still.

You lick your lips, and you sit up, rubbing your eyes.

Your head hurts - it’s almost like a hangover.

A sleep hangover is totally a thing, right?

You swing your legs over the edge of the bed, and you pull a shirt on, a random one grabbed from the mess of clean clothes you’ve got scattered around the floor.

Google is probably going to neaten that up soon, being Google, but there’s something nice about the chaos.

It reminds you that you’re some flavor of human.

You make your way downstairs, slowly, trying not to make too much noise.

There’s a light on in the kitchen, and when you walk in, blinking, you see Google.

He’s sitting at the table, with a book open in front of him.

You’re still a bit weirded out by the fact that he apparently likes to read so much - why would a robot, with access to all of that… well, everything have any interest in books?

Then again, people like to cook things even when microwave dinners are available.

… maybe you’re just addled from your sleep.

“How long was I out?”

“About six hours,” says Google.

“Wow,” you say, rubbing your eyes and yawning wide enough that your jaw cracks. “I didn’t realize that I was that tired.”

“You’ve been working hard,” Google says. 

“Yeah,” you say.

There’s a brief moment of awkwardness, and you clear your throat. 

“I’m sorry for, uh… for earlier.”

He looks over at you, his brow furrowing.

“Sorry for what?”

“I worry I’m leading you on,” you tell him.

He shrugs.

“I’m not human,” he tells you. “I don’t have feelings.”

“You do have feelings,” you remind him. “You like or dislike things.”

“I’m not insulted by things the way that humans are,” he modified. “It’s fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” he says. “Although I am curious - why are you reluctant for sexual intimacy?”

You snicker in spite of yourself, and he gives you a confused look.

“What?”

“First you tell me about how you don’t have any feelings, and then you say that you’re curious,” you tell him, pulling a chair up. “Diluting your message a bit, don’t you think.”

He looks faintly sheepish, but then he smiles at you.

“I suppose you have me there,” he says. 

“I worry about… well, I mean,” you say, and you’re aware that you’re making no sense.

“You mean?”

“You have all of the internet behind your eyeballs,” you tell him. “Why would you have any interest in someone like me?”

“Someone alive and in front of me, who I have affection for, inasmuch as I have affection for anything?”

He’s looking at you, his expression downright perplexed, and you’re not sure if you’re endeared or insulted by that.

“Right,” you say. “I know I’m not… attractive, like other people are.”

“Nobody is attractive like other people are,” he says. “Everyone is attractive like themselves.”

You can’t really argue with that, although you feel like you should.

“Well,” you say.

“Well?”

“Well.”

“Right.”

There’s an awkward silence.

“What could I do to help you feel more attractive?”

“Hm?”

“You are clearly suffering from feeling not attractive,” Google says. “What would help you feel more attractive.”

“Oh,” you say.

You hadn’t thought of that, honestly.

“Is there anything I could do?”

“I probably need to just get sexier clothing,” you say, and you laugh, just a bit, self conscious. 

You’ve never put much thought into this sort of thing, for a whole variety of complicated reasons.

“Why not?”

Google looks puzzled.

You shrug.

“I suppose I always thought that sometimes it’s just easier to accept that I find myself somewhat unattractive, rather than try to chase the ideal that I can never reach,” you tell him, which is true. 

“Right,” he says. “So the only way you can think of helping yourself feel more attractive is to try new clothing?”

“Yeah,” you tell him. “Something like that.”

“I see,” he says, then, “would you like me to make you some food?”

“Yes please,” you say, because all of that sleeping apparently took it out of you.

* * *  
The package arrives about a week later.

You haven't been thinking much about the conversation you had with Google - it was one among many, after all, and you've got other stuff going on in your life.

It isn't until the package arrives that you remember it.

To be more specific, it isn't until you _open_ the package - it's a pair of underwear. 

They're in your favorite color, and they're made of a soft, silky material - something synthetic, that catches on the calluses on your hands.

"There must be a mistake," you mumble, but you keep holding them in your hands, because they're pretty and they're soft.

There's something nice about having some soft and pretty in your hands, even if shortly you're going to have to return it to wherever it came from. 

Oh well. 

Google walks in, and he looks at the bundle of fabric in your hands.

"Oh," he says. "good. It arrived."

"Arrived?"

You look down as well.

"I bought those for you."

You pause, and you're blushing.

"What, this?"

"Yes," he says. 

"Why?"

"You said that you needed better clothes in order to feel more sexually attractive. When I was looking up what was considered "sexually attractive clothing," the main things I found were undergarments. Ergo, I bought you nice undergarments."

"... right," you say, and you're blushing, just a bit.

"Do you like them?"

Google looks faintly nervous.

"They're absolutely lovely," you tell him, and you smile at him, a little nervous.

He smiles back.

"Would you wear them, for me?"

"Of course," you say. "When do you want me to?"

"When you want to be sexually attractive," he says, and you resist the urge to roll your eyes.

That is such a Google response.

"I'll keep that in mind," you tell him.

He steps close enough to you can feel the heat radiating off of his body, and then he is pressing his mouth against yours.

His mouth is wet and it is soft.

You sigh, your hands going to the back of his neck, sliding through his hair.

You kiss him again, a little deeper this time.

His tongue is... strange, to be sure.

It's not exactly _wet_ per se, but it's not dry either - it's the kind of softness that you don't expect from something that you know isn't actually made of meat.

He pulls back, and then he's beginning to kiss along your neck, his hands on your hips, squeezing them gently.

You shiver, clutching at his shirt, and he makes a noise against your mouth.

It's almost a real person noise - a _human_ person noise, you amend in your head.

You pull back, and you look into his face.

He looks back into yours, and he licks his lips.

"Are you... are you alright?"

He sounds nervous.

"I'm alright," you tell him. "I'm... I'm great."

"I'm glad," he says, and he pats you on the cheek.

You kiss his palm, and his various servos whir. 

Your heart beats a little faster in your ears, between your legs.

"Would you like me to use my mouth on you?"

"W-w-what?"

You lick your lips, your eyes going wise.

"My mouth. Would you like me to make you orgasm with my mouth?"

"If... if you'd like to," you say, from a long way off.

You're thrumming with arousal, and somehow this is the most important thing, ever.

Why is this so important all of a sudden?

You're not sure, except that you need it more than anything you've ever needed before.

Your toes are curling against the lino of the kitchen, and then he's just... lifting you up onto the kitchen table, which is honestly kind of unsanitary, but you're not going to worry about that, you're going to let him undo the buttons of your pants, you're going to let him pull your underwear down with it.

He gets on his knees in front of you, and he's got his hands on your inner thighs, spreading your legs a little wider.

You sigh, leaning back as much as you can without falling over, and then you're spreading your legs wider, as he kisses up the inside of your thigh.

"You're very warm," he tells you, in a serious tone of voice.

"Thank you?"

You're not sure if that's a complaint, a comment, or something else, but then his mouth is right at that one spot, the place where you're the most sensitive, and you shudder, your hips rolling forward.

He makes a pleased noise, and he licks you, all along the sensitive parts, and your eyes practically roll back in your head.

Your toes are curling now, digging into his sides, and it's taking effort to keep your knees from closing, from trying to keep him in place.

He does something wet and ticklish with his lips, and you cry out, twisting his hair in your fingers.

He makes a contented noise against you, and then his throat is working, his jaw is working, and he's just... doing things, doing things that are making you squirm, making you pant, making you dig your heels into his sides, into his back.

You're thrashing, as he does things with his mouth that you didn't think were possible.

At least, not possible with someone who didn't, strictly speaking, have nerves attached to his mouth.

Maybe you're thinking about this too hard - especially _now_ , when he's using his mouth on you like this, when he's making you feel this good, when you're practically counting the stars as he makes you see them.

He's pushing you to the brink, and you're teetering over the very edge of it, sobbing.

When he pulls back, his lips aren't swollen, and there's no sheen of drool on his chin.

There's something faintly eerie about that, but you're not going to complain too hard, because he makes eye contact.

"I can make my mouth vibrate," he says quietly. "Would you like that?"

"Um," you say, as articulate as ever.

He smiles at you.

"Is that a yes?"

You nod, then realize he might need verbal confirmation.

"Yes," you tell him. "Please, yes, make your mouth vibrate, please...."

And then his mouth is on you again, and it's beginning to buzz, and your eyes roll back into your head.

You cum.

You can't really help it, can you? 

You cum so hard that you possibly hear the voices of angels, or maybe you're just going loopy, because _fuck_ the pleasure pulsing through you is enough to make you incoherent.

You slump back against the table, staring up at the ceiling, panting like you've been running a race.

"Fuck," you say, as eloquent as ever.

"So you enjoyed that?"

He stands up, and he reaches for you.

He kisses you, and he tastes faintly plastic, like himself, and he tastes like your arousal, like your orgasm. 

"I... very much enjoyed that," you tell him, and you're still panting.

He smiles at you, as close to a shit eating grin as he can get.

"Good," he says. 

* * *

You wear the fancy underwear, two days later.

You do a bunch of other stuff as well - you take an extra long shower, you clean bits of yourself that you usually don't give that kind of attention.

You've got... you've got plans.

Vague plans, admittedly, but still plans.

The underwear are cool as they slide up your legs, and the press against bits of your anatomy in interesting ways.

You almost regret what a mess you're going to leave them in.

Almost.

But... well, fuck it.

You can always get more.

* * *

Google is in the kitchen when you come up behind him, pressing your forehead against his shoulder.

He's washing dishes.

He continues to wash dishes, until you bring your hand up to the back of his neck, idly tracing the spot where his charging port would open up. 

He freezes - full on freezes, to the point where you're faintly worried that you've made him crash.

Then he sighs, leaning back into you.

"Oh," he says, his voice thick.

"Since you let me put my fingers someplace they don't normally go," you tell him, your voice quiet, "I'm, uh... I'm offering you the chance to return the favor."

He looks over his shoulder at you, one eyebrow up.

"What does that mean?"

"Do you want to fuck me in the ass?"

"Do you want me to fuck you in the ass?"

You resist the urge to groan.

Of course.

"I would like you to, yes," you tell him, "but if you don't want to, then you don't have to."

"I would very much like to," he tells you, and then he's grabbing you by the wrist, leading you into the bedroom at a near run. "I would _very_ much like to."

You snicker a bit in spite of yourself.

"You're awfully eager," you tease.

"You have a very nice ass," he tells you, as he turns you around, so that the two of you are facing each other.

He cups your face, your forehead against his, and then he grabs for the hem of your shirt, pulling it up and over your head, tossing it aside.

Next go your pants, and then it's just you, in the underwear that he bought specifically for you.

_Fuck_.

Your head is spinning, and your heart is beating very fast.

You weren't aware how heady this would be, or just how badly you'd want this.

You lick your lips.

Whatever block was in the way... well, it ain't there anymore, that's for sure!

"I would like to give you a rim job," Google says, and he's using that same voice he uses for everything - vaguely helpful, vaguely bored. 

"A rim job?"

You blink at him, faintly confused. 

"Analingus. Salad tossing. Ass eating. Kissing the -"

"Yes, yes, I've got the idea," you say quickly. 

He could probably list all of those synonyms, if he got the urge.

That would be a lot of synonyms though, holy shit. 

You lick your lips. 

"So may I?"

Now he sounds... eager.

"Yes," you say. "Yes, yes, please, I... I want it very much."

"Good," he says, and he's getting on his knees behind you, which is making your toes curl into the rug, your fingers curling as well, tips pressing into the palms of your hands.

He doesn't pull the panties down - he slides them to the side, to be sure, but then he's... spreading open the cheeks of your ass, and he's licking your hole, gently.

You shudder - that's unexpected.

You've done some anal stuff, but never really with someone else.

It's... well, no lie, it's kind of strange, but it's not like he's human. 

It's not like he's going to complain about anything in particular, right?

He nips the side of your ass, gently, and then he's beginning to tongue you open - little jabs with his tongue, as more of it slides inside of you, until his nose is against the crack of your ass, and if he could breathe, he'd be panting, leaving a hot, misty sheen across your skin. 

But he can't breathe, and while it does feel delicious, there's none of the overheated dampness that you usually associate with this kind of activity.

You feel like there should be more fanfare, more planning - after all, you've been building this up for so long, and now, here you are, just... standing up while he eats your ass.

He eats your ass enough that you're going weak in the knees, and then he's bending you over carefully, so that you're face down on the bed, your ass in the air, and he's kneading at your hips, squeezing them.

His tongue is making filthy wet noises, and you'd be embarrassed, but you're humping against the bed, humping back against his mouth, and then... oh god, then his tongue begins to vibrate.

You have a wet, undignified orgasm, flopping flat onto the bed, and you look over your shoulder at Google, who is kissing up your back.

“I’d like to put my penis inside of you,” he says, without preamble.

Then again, does he need a preamble, after all of that?

… the image of him reciting the preamble of the United States Constitution won’t leave your head now, and you’re snickering, even as something cold and slippery is slid into your ass - he must have lubed up his finger.

“Am I doing something funny? Are you ticklish?”

“No, no,” you say. “Just, uh… my brain went somewhere.”

“Where did it go?”

He turns you around - just bodily lifts you up, puts you on your back, and now you’re looking up at him, as he looms over you.

He’s not exactly an imposing figure, but he’s got it in him to loom.

You lick your lips, staring up at him wide eyed, as he pushes his pants down, and now you can see his erection for the first time.

It looks… surprisingly normal.

Much more normal than you’d assume, honestly. 

It doesn’t look entirely, well… alive, but you’ve seen dildos that looked less realistic.

He’s rubbing it against your thigh, and it’s not sticky, which is odd, but then it _is_ \- oh. 

Is he… excreting lube?

That’s a little gross, but also a little… not.

“Oh,” you say, because… yeah, he’s lining his cock up with your ass, and he’s sliding it into you, carefully, before you have a chance to react.

Oh.

Oh, that’s a good stretch, that’s a bit of a long stretch, but it feels… god, it feels good.

You groan, a long, drawn out sound, and then he’s over you, his forehead against yours, and he’s grabbing at your hand, pushing it against the back of his neck.

“Please,” he says, and his voice is hoarse.

“Right,” you say, because if he’s been willing to give you pleasure, why shouldn’t you return the favor.

You stroke along the very edges of the port, as his cock begins to twitch inside of you, and then… it’s vibrating.

Oh _fuck_.

You shudder, as the vibrations begin to buzz through you, pressing against the various sensitive spots inside of you.

Your head hits the bed, and your arch your back as your fingers slide back into him, tracing the change of sensation, from “flesh” to the shiny, smooth metal.

The metal itself is cool.

He groans, the first heartfelt sound he’s made, and he begins to thrust faster.

“You feel so good,” he says, and then his hand is between your legs, doing things that are making you sob, even as you awkwardly finger the hole in the back of his neck.

You press down on the contact points, rubbing them with the pad of your finger, and he humps into you harder, his servos whirring.

He must be really into this, if he’s showing this much emotion - genuine emotion, weird robot emotion, not just the emotions he puts on for you. 

You press your face into his shoulder, as his hand keeps working you over, his fingers moving in clever ways that make your hips jerk.

The both of you are a mess at this point - from your sweat, from the lube.

Does he sweat?

It’s wet, and it’s sticky - in a lot of ways, it’s like sex with a person made of meat.

Except… well, the cock in your ass isn’t throbbing with a heartbeat, and he’s not breathing, even as he fucks you.

Your eyes roll back in your head, and you keep rubbing the contact points, keep up the awkward finger fucking that you’re attempting, that’s making his hips stutter as he fucks into you.

“You’re very warm inside,” he says, and he’s got his forehead pressed against yours.

He hasn’t tried to kiss you, after his tongue was in your ass.

You appreciate that.

“Yeah?”

“It’s… interesting,” he says, and then he gives a long, drawn out groan, as you do something tricky with your fingers, and then he’s going utterly stiff as he cums.

Your ass is flooded with what seems to be lube, which is… well, a little gross, but you’re not going to complain, as you clench around him, because he’s still trembling against you, as you begin to finger him some more, helping him ride out the orgasm.

He’s still bucking wildly, as you begin to tense up, and then he’s doing… something, you don’t know what he’s doing, except that it’s sending you almost over the edge, almost….

And then he flexes his cock (which is still hard, of course) inside of you and he does something with his thumb at the same time, and you give over to your orgasm, falling over the edge and cumming, hard enough that it almost hurts.

Almost.

The pleasure and the sweetness just… fill you up, overflowing, and you’re shaking as you clench around his cock, as you roll your hips up to meet his, as you ride the orgasm out like a surfer on a wave, and he’s above you, stroking your hair out of your face, making vaguely soothing noises.

You sigh, and you shudder, and then you go limp, flat on the bed.

You close your eyes, panting, until a hand cups your cheek.

“Are you alright?”

_I’m fine_ , you mean to say.

“It’s turtles all the way down,” you say instead, because apparently you make less sense than usual when you’ve just had an orgasm.

He looks at you, faintly baffled, and then his face breaks into a slow, easy grin.

“Indeed,” he says, and he nuzzles into your neck, your own fingers still in his neck.

This is going to be weird, but… you’ll find a way to make it work.

Somehow.

**Author's Note:**

> Like this fic?
> 
> Want me to write you something like it, or something completely different?
> 
> Come talk to me on my tumblr, theseusinthemaze.tumblr.com!


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